Blowing stuff up
by JennxDavis
Summary: Following Moriarty around, set to Ke ha's song, "Blow".


Disclaimer: I own nothing. The song, "Blow" is Ke$ha's and everything else is BBC's Sherlock, thus references abound and some dialogue is quoted. Horrible, isn't it?

"But, Sir."

Ugh. He looked over his shoulder. He knew the buffoon would ask what the point of the ordeal was.

"What's the point of this? It seems so roundabout…."

Why did he need a point? It would all be so amusing. What's the point of an occupation if you can't have fun with it? He gritted his teeth and decided to answer anyway. "Because I want to watch them," and he looked back at the window in front of him. The single light in the room was against his back so the darkness outside the window afforded a reflection. Two pupils stared back at him, a mad glint offering a contrast to the darkened face and the otherwise deadpan expression.

"Do…," the pawn hesitated, "do what, Sir?"

Why again did he tell people things? They were only _pawns_ and increasingly infuriating. However, they did take care of the dirty work; dirty work wasn't his thing.

He swiveled his chair around in the direction of the bumbling idiot, exasperated by his lack of the ability to follow trains of thought. A click sounded as he turned. Perhaps he could do the dirty work just this once, though. He raised his black British Army Browning L9A1 and fired before turning back around to face the window.

He giggled. He leaned back in his chair and lifted his head as his giggles rose in pitch and volume as he thought of watching the detective and his loyal pet before suddenly stopping. Watching them do what? Oh, as if he didn't know! Resuming the same stance as before, except for a small smirk on his lips, he spoke to the lifeless room.

"Dance."

_(Back door cracked, we don't need a key. We get in for free, no VIP sleaze._

_Drink that kool-aid, follow my lead. Now you're one of us, you're coming with me.)_

Coming in the front entrance was rather drab. Nevermind that it would alert people to his presence. No, that wouldn't be good. Operating from the shadows was just what he did. Best to stay out of the light and keep attention at bay. Besides, credit would be given all in due time. And by the right person as well.

And so he turned the corner and left the dimly lit street to walk down a dank alley. The dim bass from the club got louder as he pulled open the heavy black door and walked in, allowing it to slam shut behind him. Was it sad he could navigate the narrow halls without light at this point? Eh, no matter, he mused to himself. The strobe lights from the club filtered through a crimson curtain up ahead as it fluttered open and shut. Bodies were being dragged through them. It really was too easy to do away with the heads of establishments. He walked forward and through the red curtain as the last man was dragged back.

He sat down and leaned into his chair, surveying the scene before him. It was rather disgusting, all the bodies just flung together, gyrating against one another to the most absurd of music (though, could he really call this music?), without any sort of intelligent thought flitting through their dull brains. Surely, even with this poor excuse for music inciting those carnal …actions, one couldn't call it dancing. He'd have to speak to the DJ to see if that could be changed. After all, the proprietors of the establishment were out in the hallway and could be easily influenced upon waking up.

As he viewed the scene before him, his disgust turned to mild amusement. As the music picked up pace, the insignificant life-forms couldn't check their rhythm. In a frenzied rush, people began to lose any sort of shame and began to tear at each other. Not only clothes, but so lost in passion, they didn't notice as skin came off as well and flecks of blood flew everywhere. Lights were knocked down and speakers toppled over, tearing wires, showering sparks and he heard his own low laugh join in with the screams that rose with the flames and-  
"Mr. Moriarty?"

The cockney speech woke him from his chaotic reverie. Oh, if only. But this was no time to dwell upon his dreams. His client had arrived, after all. It would not do to be discourteous. "Ah, yes. Do sit down." The cabbie did so, looking around anxiously. Yes, he had not thought about how awkward it would be for a fifty-something-year-old cabbie to walk into a night club. Certainly, he would agree that this "music" was rubbish. "Have a drink." It wasn't a request. He signaled to the waiter in the corner, who promptly came over and spoke to the client. Moriarty looked back over the crowd and sneered. What a menace he was about to unleash upon them. …If they made it to him. His smirk only grew.

"So, you're dying." It wasn't a question. It was evident he'd startled the poor cabbie, as he had faintly heard him sputter into his drink. He looked back, blasé, and saw the cabbie trying to dab up his partially spilled drink.

"Umm, yes," replied the cabbie, embarrassed. "Aneurism."

"And what do you want me to do about that?"

"Erm, nothing, Sir. It's not that I'm worried about." At this, Moriarty smiled. He did like a man who accepted his fate.

"Then what is it?" He fiddled with the champagne glass in front of him, tracing the rim with his fingers, eliciting a ringing tone.

"Well, Sir…." The cabbie fidgeted. Moriarty's seeming lack of attention unnerved him. "It's just that… I don't know when I'll g-"

"Brain aneurisms tend to be like that."

"Yes, I know that." The cabbie replied sharply. The change in temperament amused him. "However," he was trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice, "I'm … awfully bored-" Moriarty cocked his head to the side. "-with my life," he continued fidgeting with his napkin, "with my job," he was failing to keep agitation out of his voice, "and with the ignorant scum I have to transport." His napkin was in pieces.

"Now, are you looking to die _yourself_," he began, "or take out your discontent on your patrons?" He looked up as he posed this option, expecting to see surprise on the cabbie's face. He wasn't disappointed.

He explained the plan.

Once finished, he glanced back at the cabbie. He didn't seem to be dealing with any large internal conflict. "But that's kil-"

"Oh, rot!" exclaimed Moriarty. "It'll be outliving them. They make the choice to take the pill." He could see the cabbie overcoming his conscience. "You shouldn't need help otherwise. You should know good isolated spots. You know how trusting people are. They don't ever think about the poor cabbie. You're nothing to them." He could practically hear the gears turning in the cabbie's head as realization dawned on him.

He signaled to the waiter to get the cabbie another drink. The cabbie took a long draught. Moriarty did love his job, for it made the journey to hell all the more entertaining if he could drag down as many other people with him as possible.

"Where would I get the pills?"

Moriarty smirked.

_(It's time to kill the lights and shut the DJ down. _

_Tonight, we're taking over. No one's getting out.)_

Well, that was at least ten thousand quid in his pocket, and then another five hundred per set of pills. After all, he was only a poor cabbie.

But now Moriarty had grown bored again. What rubbish music. With a sigh, he snapped at one of his guards standing by the curtain. He nodded and stalked off toward the DJ.

"The man in the corner wants to listen to something else." The pawn had to shout over the music to be heard, shoving an iPod into the DJ's hands. He pointed to Moriarty who was leaning back in his chair, staring intently over at the DJ, illuminated by a wandering green light for a second. The image sent a chill down the DJ's spine.

"Sorry, chap, but we have to cater to the interest of everybody. I doubt they'd want to listen to that. People come here to have a good time, not sit through any fancy symphonies," he said, trying to shake off the unreasonable fear he felt when he looked over.

Moriarty nodded to a girl off to his right as the guard came back. She slinked away to the DJ as well.

He'd stopped looking at his turntables as he caught sight of the black-haired seductress sent to persuade him. He opened his mouth to ask if she had a request, but instead of words, he got tongue down his throat and hands on his neck and in his hair. The DJ responded after a moment's shock, forgetting his job as blood rushed from his brain. He didn't feel the girl position her hands under his chin and on the top of his head.

The crack was never heard over the music.

As the DJ slumped to the floor, the girl walked off without looking back and another guard stepped in his place, kicking the body under the table. Deftly, he switched out the iPod for a different one, only a moment's pause in the music. However, instead of the club music that created such carnal dancing, Witches' Sabbath resumed. A movement based off an opium overdose and witch orgies fit the crowd, as much as they would detest it. But they wouldn't have to suffer through it long.

Moriarty saw the pawns that he'd paid off get into position, guarding each exit. He left through the curtain without another look, exiting the premises, leaving the destruction to his imagination.

_(This place about to blow)_

Down below, the undercurrent of the cellos and basses beginning their motif again could barely be heard, especially over the increasingly frantic pleas of the people in the club to get out. The timer blinked red and ticked down, down, down. The basement was filled with barrels of kerosene, each wired.

The two themes came together again. The finale was so close. Half a minute.

It was funny how well the piece fit the people in there. Both started quiet. And then as each new theme came into it, different groups would bicker and complain about being cooped up or having to listen to that posh symphony. They were here to have a good time. What gave?

Fitting that the turning point was at the idée fixe. Perhaps it was the distorted sound of the recurrent theme of the whole _Symphonie Fantastique_, as though they understood that something was wrong. And then all of the sudden, fear set in. Fear, panic, havoc, swelling to a bursting point and it became chaos. And over it all was Moriarty's dominant theme. He smiled as he flattered himself with how well he had orchestrated the whole affair (mind his pun).

And now they'd come to the final moments. People clawing at the doors, throwing themselves against the exits in vain.

Moriarty laughed just thinking about it, safe on the other side of town.

00:00

The faint blinking clock was the first to be consumed as the room was engulfed in a burst of red and yellow fire, incinerating everything down below, bursting up through the basement and through the club where debris actually wasn't totally annihilated. Glass shattered and the whole building collapsed in itself, waves of energy flying out into street.

What an ending!

_(Now what? We're taking control. We get what we want, we do what you don't.)_

"Sir, how will this help us rule the public?"

Moriarty just glared, exasperated.

"Oh, right. Terror. Good thinking, Sir," and continued moving the packets of semtex into the truck, looking down out of embarrassment. "Right, the Bruce-Partington plans'll just ce-" Moriarty didn't listen to the rest of the idiot's talk.

He sighed and glanced at his watch. Grunts always tried his patience (if only they could be trusted to do things themselves. But, as long as they were disposable….). No, they weren't doing this for fear. While effective, fear tactics meant coming out into the open. And using the plans to cement control? Hah. How funny. No, this wasn't for obtaining the missile plans, either. That would be a rather round-about way of doing it (although he didn't object to round-about plans). No, he could get those plans anywhere he wanted with his influence in the government. No rule or power had to be cemented or secured. While he had no tentative hold, he had a good grasp; not firm enough to be traced back, but strong enough to have enough pawns to do what he wished, even with that ridiculous, corpulent, umbrella-wielding man who some how knew nearly everything that was happening.

No. This? This dance with Sherlock with the murders he's organized and hostages to distract him? This was for fun. And what fun it was.

A buzz snapped him out of his musings. It was one of the snipers.

"She's talking again. Orders?"

Another sigh. Could they not think for themselves? Obviously not. Everything would run so smoothly if he didn't have so many pawns, but then he'd have to dirty his hands. Getting too involved was never good anyway. Even meeting Sherlock had been risky, but necessary (to him, at least. He just had to meet the world's only consulting detective before destroying every last fiber of his being). He typed back the reply.

"No. Wait."

How much longer would it take Mr. Holmes to solve the case? Sure, any way it ended, he would still have Sherlock dancing at his command (he knew the detective wasn't doing this for the lives at stake, but because he loved this game with a new enemy), and would still break him in body and spirit. The hostages were just to give Sherlock a moral front.

And to make it more interesting if he failed.

Moriarty had chosen his hostages well; a young woman in a car park, a young man surrounded by _life_ on all sides, and now? An invalid; grandmother of six. Widowed, ninety-three years old. Defective as well- she was blind. It was a bother that he must speak directly to her since she couldn't read, but hearing her terrified, decrepit voice made up for it. His next hostage would finish the cycle. Woman, man, one near the end of her life, so, logically, what should come next? Why, one whose life has just begun, of course! He grinned at how horrified Sherlock's companions would be when they heard the voice of an eight year old.

But he mustn't get ahead of himself. He wiped the grin off his face and turned back to the transfer operation. Again, the incompetence of his workers angered Moriarty. "Now honestly, boys, we're not blowing up all of London at once! Put some of those back. We're only strapping enough to his pet to demolish the swimming pool." Capturing his loyal companion was the only way to really snare Sherlock. And the pool? He knew Sherlock would suggest it.

He groaned as he looked back at his watch. He had to get back to St. Bartholomew's or people would wonder. Keeping up appearances was so draining.

_(Dirt and glitter cover the floor. We're pretty and sick. We're young and we're bored.)_

He sat on the couch with that ridiculous girl. As disgusting as it was to have her cling to him, he thought it was hysterical the way that she tried to replace Sherlock with him. Oh, she'd even introduced them (which was quite thrilling. He was everything he'd ever imagined and more. Tall, slender, imposing, a mess of curly, dark locks on his ethereal, nearly alien face [so long, so perfect, and oh, that jaw line], a well-tailored suit [though not superior to his own Westwood], and his _neck_- don't even get him started on his voice. When he took one look at him and muttered "gay" under his breath, Moriarty could've lost it. He knew he had appreciated the green waistband visible, but he had actually felt himself get nervous when he heard that low, alluring baritone-)-

So, maybe he understood part of why Molly had fallen to the doom of unrequited obsession. After all, wasn't he partially obsessed with Sherlock as well? Yes, he was certainly quite handsome, but it was his intellect Moriarty was mainly concerned with. And finally, he was the object of his deductive powers: Sherlock was becoming obsessed with him, and he relished it as he knew Sherlock was dancing all over London solving his cases within the allotted time.

They were watching the news report on the second explosion caused by a "gas leak" somewhere in London. The reporter was saying how it had killed at least twenty-three people and the camera was panning over the remains of the apartment building when Molly shifted to look up at him.

"You know," she began, "the man from the Scotland Yard was at Bart's yesterday with Sherlock and that John Watson to look at the body of Connie Prince. They said something big was going on. That someone was strapping hostages to explosives and would detonate them unless Sherlock solved the puzzles… because he was bored…." Jim stopped listening for a bit as he slid his iPhone out of his pocket and checked The Science of Deduction. Still no reply on his "hidden messages". The third still lay unsolved: "Sherlock, I have found you." Yes, he had most certainly found him.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade seemed really worried about this one," Molly's voice filtered back into his mind. "He said it was a blind elderly woman this time… Do you think the explosion was from that?" her voice quivered.

Oh no. He had to show emotion now, didn't he? Ugh. He was in no mood for acting. "I don't know, Molly. That's a horrible thing for someone to do."

She shifted back around to the telly and huffed. "It must be a terribly ugly old man. There's no way someone so horrible couldn't be."

"Oh, you never know," he replied. "They don't have to be ugly; probably better looking than I, maybe just as young. Young men get bored all the time. It could be just another Sherlock, just as handsome and sociopathic."

"Oh, Jim! Don't say such things!" She snuggled closer to him as she finished, "No one that sick and twisted could ever be as pretty as you."

Jim Moriarty was torn between grimacing at the contact and her unabashed affection and sneering at how easily the foolish girl could be deceived. Pretty, eh?

His thoughts tangented off and he envisioned the rubble of the building and how the shattered glass from all the windows would be mixed in with all the debris and dust, dazzling his mind with all the reflected lights as the sun would shine off each glass shard, like a glitter factory had exploded... But with the charred remains of infrastructure and human.

He smiled all the same.

_(It's time to lose your minds and let the crazy out._

_Tonight, we're taking names because we don't mess around.)_

Oh, this was too good. Even from across the length of the pool and behind the windowed door, he could see the betrayal and astonishment on Sherlock's face. Not even the great consulting detective could have seen that coming. It only served to excite Moriarty more as he fed words to Sherlock's pet through the mouth piece. "Open your jacket." He watched the doctor's arms open his oversized coat to reveal that he, too, had been decked out with explosives. Sherlock's attempt to regain composure failed as his consternation distracted him. Oh, how fun it was to exploit weaknesses!

But now it was time for him to make his entrance. The monster would step out into the open.

"I gave you my number," he paused, stifling the giggles that tried to burst from his mouth. It was time to get serious. "I thought you might call." And he entered the room.

"Jim Moriarty." He stopped to face Sherlock. Oh, he was pointing his own British Army Browning L9A1 at him!, inspecting him with the same scrutiny reserved for crime scenes. It was all so thrilling. "Hi!" And he walked along the side of the pool again. He told him he was a specialist, yes, just like dear old Sherlock. "Consulting criminal" he said. Moriarty rather liked that, his smile widening. Oh, but now Sherlock was in his way.

He thanked him.

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

Yes, he did.

"Okay, I did." He had to check his smile. It was so hard to remain serious when Sherlock was just so intriguing. "But the flirting's over, Sherlock; Daddy's had enough now!" He had done all the work, even thrown away thirty million pounds just for him to come play this little game, but it was time to end it.

"You could've died."

_Oh, Sherlock, but don't you understand?_ he thought. "That's what people **do**!" he ended up shouting. His mask was slipping. He decided to tell Sherlock what would happen if he continued prying, continued their little game.

"I will burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock replied oh so characteristically: "I've been reliably informed I don't have one."

"But we both know that's not quite true." The flash of fear in Sherlock's icy eyes and how he risked a glance at John told Moriarty that he knew he wasn't messing around anymore.

And then he left.

For a minute.

Sherlock had just ripped the semtex vest off of John when Moriarty stepped back in. "Sorry, boys. I'm _so_ changeable! It's a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." More snipers trained their sights on the pair, covered in tiny red dots.

_(Go insane, go insane. Throw some glitter, make it rain. Let me see them hands.)_

"You can't be allowed to continue." Moriarty shook his head, but couldn't keep the smile off his face. "You just can't."

Sherlock threatened to drag Moriarty down with them as he pointed his gun at the explosives across the floor. Interesting…. Moriarty cocked his head. This was certainly a turn of events. Well, even if he did die, at least Sherlock would be out of the way as well.

Sherlock fired.

And yet everything remained the same.

Panic seized John, confusion Sherlock, and a hysterical giddiness wracked Moriarty. His high pitched giggles burst forth and soon he was nearly doubled over. The maniacal laughter echoed menacingly off the walls and Sherlock just looked defeated. He hadn't bothered to reload the barrel after using up all his rounds on The Golem. They slowly raised their hands over their heads as the red lasers were equally trained on Sherlock, John, and the vest.

Moriarty clapped, body shaken with relentless laughter and managed, just barely, to depart his farewell. "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes," and walked away from the pool, through the doors, out of the building, and off the premises, his hysterical giggling never ceasing.

He turned around to face the building once outside of the blast radius. All emotion fell away from his face instantly as he touched his ear piece to relay his final orders to the pawns in the building. "Blow."

And the whole building was engulfed in flame. Perhaps he was closer than he should be (he probably shouldn't be so close as to feel the immense heat), but he reveled in seeing the blasts of fire and wreckage shot into air, having the sky seem to shimmer as glass shards and vaporizing water droplets were lit by the cascades of fire. Another smile cracked his empty visage as, somehow, streams of water survived and began to rain down even where he stood. Glass shards, too, fell down around him, glistening in the street lights like snow, cutting his face as they hit him. The final blast of heat and energy crashed into him and more tiny bits of detritus hit him. Water, glass, charred bits of wreckage pelted him for another second before it was all over.

And there stood Jim Moriarty, shaking with low chuckles, his Westwood ruined, blood trickling from the cuts on his face; the last man standing, basking in his insane triumph.

_(We're taking over. Get used to it, okay?)_

"Gregory Lestrade?"

Lestrade jumped, nearly slamming his head on the desk. He must've fallen asleep in his office. "Damnit, Sherlock, don't do tha-"

He interrupted the Detective Inspector. "He doesn't exist anymore, Inspector. I've stopped him."

Lestrade now looked up to see who was addressing him. He didn't recognize the face, nor the voice. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind of his grogginess. He placed his hands on his desk to steady himself as he stood up, staring at the shorter man in front of him. The lights were off in his office and the blinds were partially shut. The thin streams of light that did make it in only offered less than half of the figure's face. Short, black hair, menacing sneer, and a deadly glint in the eye he could see.

"Who are you?"

His laugh sent chills down Lestrade's spine. "Jim Moriarty. We'll be seeing a lot of each other, Lestrade." He left a small envelope on the desk before walking out. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."

It took Lestrade a few minutes to understand that the strange occurrence wasn't just a dream. Remembering the envelope on the desk, he picked it up and moved over to the blinds. It was addressed to him in the same blue ink and elegant hand that had graced Sherlock's letter just three days ago. He opened it to find a single slip of paper.

"You can't stop me now. Get used to it."


End file.
